


Rediscovered

by loves_books



Category: The A-Team (2010), The A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Other Additional Tags to Be Added
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-03-21
Packaged: 2019-10-17 18:59:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 15,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17566154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loves_books/pseuds/loves_books
Summary: Long-lost bits and pieces, rediscovered in old notebooks.





	1. The One With Hypothermia (2013?)

**Author's Note:**

> I write nearly all of my stories by hand in a notebook, and not everything turns into a full story or gets beyond a vague idea, therefore not everything gets typed up or edited. I've been clearing out some old boxes and have come across several notebooks containing half-finished pieces, and while some are truly awful (and rightly deserve to end up in the recycling bin!) some are not too terrible, at least in my opinion. I've typed up a few and have a fair few more to go, and thought they might be of interest to someone, possibly, though I have no intention of continuing any of these little pieces. I'll add to the tags as I go along so please keep your eyes open.

Settling himself on the edge of the bed, remote control in hand, Hannibal flicked through the channels until he found a news report, then leaned back with a contented sigh, bracing himself on his hands. Another ‘mission’ safely completed, another good payday for the team, and now all he needed was a good meal.

He heard Face turn the shower off in the small en-suite bathroom, and smiled a little in anticipation of how much his lieutenant would complain about the lukewarm water – they could all have used a really hot shower after a day spent running around in the snowstorm that had settled over the town, Face especially after he had ended up diving into a large snowdrift to escape a speeding car aimed at him. Still, their motel room was warm and clean, and Murdock and BA had gone out in search of dinner, even if it was probably going to be burgers and fries yet again.

The door to the en-suite opened and Face stepped out, a towel around his waist and another in his hands, rubbing his curly hair dry. Mostly focussed on the news report, Hannibal asked, “Good shower, kid?” He bit back a smirk in anticipation of a smart, bitchy reply.

“No goddamn hot water,” Face complained, exactly as expected, but there was something in his voice that snapped the colonel’s head up. He watched the younger man move around the room, quickly pulling on a loose pair of sleep pants and a thick pair of socks, but it wasn’t until Face reached across him for a sweatshirt that he realised.

“Face, you’re still shivering?” Hannibal stood, news forgotten, and crossed the small room to Face’s side. Stopping the kid as he tried to pull the sweatshirt over his head, Hannibal rested one hand on Face’s shoulder, reaching his other hand up to press against his forehead. “Jesus, kid, you should’ve said something.”

Predictably, Face shied away from Hannibal’s touch, pulling his arm free and tugging the sweatshirt over his head at last. “Don’t fuss, Hannibal,” he hissed, but up close the colonel could see the younger man was quite pale under his perpetual tan, and he had felt the cold skin and the shivers.

“A hot shower would’ve been better, huh?” he chuckled, trying to get Face to relax a little, while wondering how much he should be worried.

This was the reason his team had never taken missions in cold countries unless it was absolutely necessary. Face was a true Southern California boy, thriving in the heat and soaking up the sun whenever he had the chance, and thankfully over the last decade their talents had mostly been needed in hot environs – Iraq, Afghanistan, Mexico, South America, and even Africa.

On the few occasions they had been working in colder climates, the team worked just as well, but Face inevitably suffered physically from the cold. Hannibal knew it frustrated the younger man, this physical weakness he simply couldn’t work around, and time after time they had returned to base safely only for Face to either collapse with hypothermia (an early mission in Russia) or develop pneumonia (after two weeks in the mountains of Pakistan).

A particularly violent shudder drew Hannibal’s focus back to the man in front of him, as Face crossed his arms over his chest, unable to hide his shaking now and dropping his head a little. “Sorry, boss,” Face breathed. “Can’t get warm.”

This time Face allowed Hannibal to press his palm to his forehead again, testing his temperature. The colonel shook his head, watching the kid’s face. “Nothing to be sorry for, Face. I should’ve realised.” He thought for a moment. “Get under the blankets for a while. The guys probably won’t be back with dinner for another half hour or so.”

He half-expected Face to protest, but after a moment the younger man nodded and crawled into the closest of the two queen-sized beds, curling up on his side as Hannibal tugged the blankets up over him. “You gonna tuck me in, too, Hannibal?” he mumbled into the blankets, burrowing in.

“Cheeky brat,” the colonel replied, affectionately smoothing Face’s damp curls away from his forehead as the kid’s eyes drifted shut. He felt terrible for not thinking of Face sooner, especially given how hard he had worked on this job, running two separate cons and forging numerous documents. One standard rule for dealing with Face was that he was fine so long as he was complaining. It was only when the complaints stopped that Hannibal got worried, and as he thought about that day, he realised his XO hadn’t really bitched about the temperature after they had pulled him out of the snowdrift.

Hannibal sighed, realising he’d gotten too caught up in the adrenaline rush of the job. It was a weakness of his, the ‘jazz’ as his boys had dubbed it, as much as BA’s fear of flying, Murdock’s crazy tendencies, and Face’s inability to resist a beautiful woman.

Coming to a decision, he stood, stripping down to t-shirt and shorts, then lifted the blankets to slide in next to his XO. “Shuffle over a bit, kid,” he urged, settling himself against the pillows and drawing the blankets back over them both.

“You don’t need to – ” Face began, his words muffled by the coverings.

Hannibal quickly cut him off. “I know I don’t need to, Face. I want to.” He reached one hand down between the young man’s shoulder blades, encouraging him closer, and after a moment’s resistance Face uncurled a little, pressing his cool face and hands against his colonel’s side. “Let’s get you warmed up.”

One arm wrapped around the shivering man, the other slowly rubbing up and down over the blankets, Hannibal let Face get comfortable against him. They had done this before, this sharing of body heat, when they had to, all four of the team long since comfortable crossing into each other’s personal space. Strange situations over many years of missions, both in the Army and since, had eroded most of their physical embarrassment, and Face settled his head on Hannibal’s shoulder, cold hands pressed to his side as he uncurled fully, accepting the warmth on offer.

In the end, it was just over half an hour before Hannibal heard his other two men coming back to the room. The reason he heard them was partly Murdock’s loud singing, and partly BA’s hollering for quiet. Making a mental note to warn both men once again about the importance of keeping a low profile, Hannibal glanced down at his lieutenant. 

Face had fallen asleep very quickly, tucked snug against his colonel’s side. His shivers had eased a little, though Hannibal felt he was still too cool, and so far his noisy teammates hadn’t disturbed his rest. As Hannibal heard a key in the room door, his fixed his best Colonel stare on the men as they burst in, clutching bags of food and a tray of steaming drinks.

BA noticed first, slamming to a stop and nudging Murdock as the pilot kept on singing, depositing his bags on the table by the television. “Boss?” he murmured, a frown immediately creasing his dark face as he recognised the situation.

“Facey?” Murdock took a step towards the bed, then seemed to pull himself back. “Hannibal, what…?”

The colonel lifted a finger to his lips, quietening his men. “He’s okay, boys,” he whispered. “Just very cold still, and a little shivery.”

“Hypothermia?” Eyes opening wide with the beginnings of panic, Murdock sat very carefully on the edge of the second bed, as if terrified on disturbing his best friend.

Shaking his head slowly, Hannibal replied, “I don’t think so, just chilled. A touch of exposure maybe. Stubborn kid didn’t say anything again.” Face never spoke up when he was injured or sick, a fact his teammates knew as well as his colonel.

Starting to strip off his heavy jacket and boots, the pilot asked, “Need another body in there?”

Hannibal thought for a second. His XO was still shivering, but some hot food might do him the world of good. Stilling the hand he was still rubbing gently over the blanket-clad body, he instead brought it up to carefully brush over the curly head resting on his shoulder. “Face? Wake up for me, kid.” Murdock moved forwards, kneeling on the bed and resting a gentle hand on his friend’s shoulder, keen eyes watching to see what Hannibal needed from him.

Face didn’t stir at first, his breathing still relaxed in sleep. The colonel gently stroked his forehead, his temple, murmuring, “Come on, kid, wake up for a minute.” And eventually, the younger man opened bleary blue eyes, initially burrowing his head further into Hannibal’s shoulder as the colonel let his hand rest on the back of his head. “You wanna sit up for me, Face?”

“Not really,” came the soft reply, breathed against his shirt. The pilot giggled at that, and Face lifted his head a little. “Murdock?”

“Right here, buddy.” Hannibal untangled himself a little, pushing up to sit against the head of the bed as he watched Murdock help Face to do the same, tucking the blankets back around his friend’s waist.

Throughout all of this, BA hadn’t said a word, quietly taking off his own jacket and boots while keeping a very close eye on his team. Now, he grabbed two of the hot drinks and crossed to the side of the bed. “Hot chocolates rather than coffee, guys. Figured we didn’t need the caffeine.”

Frowning a little, Hannibal accepted one of the cups while Murdock took the other. “Open up, Facey. This’ll warm you up.”

“I’m okay, guys, honest,” Face protested as the pilot forced the hot chocolate into his hands, but Hannibal could still hear that note in his voice, the one that gave away how he really felt.

“Drink it up, man,” BA all but growled, and to Hannibal’s amusement the lieutenant lifted the drink to his lips, hands only shaking a little. With a grunt of satisfaction, the big guy turned to grab the bags of food. “Get it while it’s hot.”

Hannibal and Murdock both eagerly accepted burgers and fries, the pilot settling cross-legged on the bed, but Face just shook his head, sipping steadily at his chocolate. “Thanks, Bosco, but I’m not all that hungry,” he murmured, letting his head fall back against the headboard by Hannibal’s shoulder.

Frowning once more, this time with concern rather than from the lack of coffee, the colonel reached his hand up and pressed it against Face’s forehead again. The younger man sighed, leaning into his touch a little and letting his eyes slipped closed. “You’re still a little cool, kid. Maybe try and eat a little, it might help.”

“Just tired, boss.” Face peeled his blue eyes open to meet Hannibal’s gaze. “Honest.”

Studying his XO, the colonel eventually nodded. “Okay, Face. But at least finish the drink for me.” Turning his attention back to his dinner, conversation between the four men was minimal as they all gradually came down from the high of the job, the news channel playing quietly in the background, and after a few minutes Hannibal felt Face’s head drop back onto his shoulder.

Murdock noticed too, reaching out to grab the mostly empty cup from his friend’s hands. “Easy buddy,” he soothed. “You really are tired, huh?”

“Lie back down, kid,” Hannibal urged. “It’s okay. You’ll feel better in the morning.” He certainly hoped so: Face’s exhaustion was worrying him a little.

Without a word, Face shuffled back down into the bed, turning towards Hannibal’s side again as the colonel draped one arm around him and Murdock tucked the blankets at tight as he could. Within minutes, Hannibal could tell his XO was asleep again.

The atmosphere in the room got very quiet after that, BA turning down the volume on the TV as the three men finished up their meals. When the big guy vanished into the en-suite, Murdock stripped down to his own t-shirt and shorts before climbing carefully into the bed behind his best friend, tucking himself as close to the shivering man as he could.

Unwilling to disturb Face now he was comfortable and finally starting to warm up, Hannibal flicked the TV to standby and made himself as comfortable as he could against the head of the bed, keeping one arm firmly around his lieutenant.

When BA emerged from the bathroom, he took one look at the trio in the bed and shook his head, a small smile hovering over his lips. Grabbing a spare pillow and blanket from the second bed, he brought them over to Hannibal.

“Here you go, boss,” he murmured as he helped his colonel settle against the pillow. “Better?”

“Thanks, big man,” Hannibal whispered, watching as BA carefully draped the blanket across his team, letting his hand rest briefly on Face’s sleeping head, an oddly tender gesture for the team’s strong man. “He’s gonna be okay, Bosco. Get him warm, let him sleep it off.”

“You gonna tuck me in too?” came Murdock’s voice from the other side of the bed, and Hannibal swallowed back his laugh, not wanting to wake Face.

“Shut up, you crazy fool,” BA hissed as he crossed the room to his own bed. But the colonel didn’t miss the big man smoothing the blankets down over Murdock’s side of the bed in passing. “Go to sleep.”

“Night, Bosco. Night, bossman.” The pilot shuffled a little closer to his friend, and Hannibal felt him wrap one arm carefully around their lieutenant. “Night, Facey.”


	2. The One With Mama B And Hannibal (2015?)

Hannibal looks nothing short of stunned to find her standing on the porch when he finally opens his front door, a sentiment she can fully understand.

“I got an earlier flight.” It’s not what she meant to say. She watches as her too-short, too-blunt statement sinks slowly in, as Hannibal’s bright blue eyes fill suddenly with tears. “Oh, baby. I’m here now.”

And a split second later Hannibal’s huge arms are wrapped around her, right there in the doorway. She wraps her arms around him tightly in return, burying her face in his soft sweatshirt. He squeezes her tight, too tight for a moment before he reins in his formidable strength, and she can feel his heart racing against her chest.

“Mama,” he whispers, sounding far too broken for such a strong man, and matching tears spring to her own eyes. She refuses to let them fall yet, though she’s sure there will be tears enough in the coming days. 

“I’m here, John,” she tells him again, rubbing one hand between his shoulder blades as he takes a deep, shuddering breath. “I’m here at last.”

“You’re really here.” Realisation seems to hit Hannibal at that moment and he releases her abruptly, stooping down from his great height to press a lingering kiss to her cheek before stepping past her to scoop up her tattered old suitcase. “Where are my manners? It’s late, let’s get you inside.”

She would’ve been there hours ago, fully intending to meet the team fresh off the plane from Germany, but she’d faced a series of delays caused by increased security checks at the airports. She’d missed her connection, then struggled to find a taxi to bring her the last leg of the journey, but finally, finally she was there.

“Is he – ?” She looks around as soon as she steps inside the house, hoping to see her son’s dark head pop up over the back of the sofa, or preferably to see him limping over to hug her in greeting.

But the house seems empty and dark, with only side lamps on in the living room to cast strange shadows on the walls, and as she turns back to Hannibal she can see him shaking his head slowly.

“No, they wanted to keep him in overnight, just as a precaution.”

“I don’t understand.” Worry flares up again, deep in her chest, a constant companion since Hannibal’s brief phone call three days earlier. “You said he was doing okay. You said he – ”

“I did, and he is.” Hannibal puts her bag down at the bottom of the staircase, gesturing for her to take a seat. “It’s just routine. It was a long flight back.”

He sounds almost eerily calm, his features carefully blank now, but she pushes on regardless. “Just a through-and-through, you told me.” A bullet to the right thigh, barely missing her baby’s femoral artery, and Hannibal nods once.

“Yes, a clean shot. But as I said, there was a fair bit of blood loss and he’s on antibiotics for a minor infection. They just want to check him over for themselves. He’ll be home tomorrow, most likely.”

Too late for visiting hours now, of course, and she swallows down her worry as best she can. Hannibal wouldn’t lie to her. Her Scooter will be fine, and she’ll see him in the morning. But with her more personal fears eased fractionally, there are still bigger questions to ask, and she settles onto one end of Hannibal’s sofa, taking a moment to truly study the colonel. She doesn’t like what she sees, not one little bit.

She takes a deep breath, steeling herself, and asks, “How are you doing, son?”

His eyes fill again, just a little, but he shakes his head as he collapses down into an overstuffed armchair as if all his strings have been cut at once. To her knowing eyes, it looks as if he hasn’t slept for a month, dark circles visible under his bloodshot eyes and a heavy growth of salt-and-pepper beard on his chin and cheeks. He’s wearing what is clearly a well-loved black tracksuit with thick fleecy socks on his feet, his short hair somehow still sticking up in a dozen different directions. What hell has this poor man been through since the team left her little house in Chicago just four short weeks ago?

Hannibal allows her scrutiny, swallowing hard before shrugging one shoulder. “I’m fine, mama. There’s not a scratch on me. But my boys…”

She can hear the note of self-blame in Hannibal’s voice, something she simply can’t allow. “You got them all to safety, didn’t you, Hannibal?” 

A long pause, then a grudging admission. “Yes. I should’ve been with them but we were separated. I was pinned down, close enough to hear the gunshots. I couldn’t get back to them until it was nearly too late.”

Dear god, she doesn’t want to know this. She knows enough about the work her son and his team do. Too much, she sometimes thinks, not wanting to truly comprehend the details. It’s dangerous work, but important work. Risky, but worth the risks. That’s enough for her, normally.

Until something disastrous happens. Something like this.

“But Scooter will be okay.” Hannibal nods weakly, and she takes a breath before continuing, almost too terrified to ask. Hannibal had been so vague on the phone, choosing his words carefully and having to get off the line quickly. “And those other two boys? Murdock, and Templeton?”

Hannibal rubs one hand over his face, scrubbing at his eyes briefly. “Murdock’s doing a bit better, actually. Stable throughout the flight, and he’s showing some signs of waking up. The doctors are cautiously optimistic, though they won’t know exactly how bad the concussion is until he’s awake and talking. They think that might be tomorrow.”

That’s incredibly good news, but Hannibal has still made no mention of his lieutenant, his lover, and she tries desperately hard not to assume the very worst.

“John, baby?” she prompts after Hannibal seems to lapse back into silence, his gaze drifting off somewhere internal, tired eyes losing focus. “What about Templeton? How is he?”

Another long pause, and she fears he won’t answer her at all, until he takes a deep breath, holding it for a second before exhaling slowly. “He’s not good, mama. Not good at all.”

Hannibal seems far too distant, sitting all the way across the room in his armchair while she sits stranded and helpless on the sofa, but as much as she might want to go to him, she simply can’t. Her legs have turned suddenly to jello, and there’s no way they could hold her up.

“Tell me,” she demands, trying to put some steel in her voice but hearing the quiver instead. “Please, John.”

Hannibal seems frozen for a long moment before he shakes himself and continues, his words so quiet she has to strain forwards to hear him. “He’s in the early stages of organ failure. Still not responding to the antibiotics either, so he’s running a dangerously high fever and he’s had two seizures now. They’re doing everything they can, but they aren’t sure they should’ve moved him now. He seemed stable enough back in Germany, though, and what’s done is done. He’d want to be home, at least, if he…”

She squeezes her eyes shut, feeling a single tear slip out, wishing she could block out the awful reality. At least she is there now, with all her boys. Hannibal will need her in the coming days, she knows, and she won’t let him struggle through it alone.


	3. The One With A Plane Crash (2013?)

A muffled bang and a whispered curse, then Murdock’s oil-stained hand appeared from under the plane. “Got that part, Facey?” he called.

Handing the Captain what he hoped was the right part, Face replied, “You sure you know what you’re doing, buddy?”

“Absolutely!” Another bang, then a pause. “Be a hell of a lot easier if the big guy was here, though.”

“If Bosco was here he would’ve killed you by now for crashing the plane!” Face shook his head at the very thought, smiling a little.

“But I didn’t crash it!” The pilot pulled himself out from under the plane, accepting the rag held out to him and wiping the sweat from his face. “Not my fault if the bad guys shot the damn engine.” Face watched as his best friend settled back against the downed aircraft, sipping slowly from a bottle of water. Murdock’s gaze tracked down to Face’s left arm, a frown creasing his forehead. “I’d better change that dressing again.”

Glancing down himself, Face found himself nodding. The makeshift bandage around his upper arm was stained through with blood, despite only being changed an hour ago.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor next to Murdock, he kept his reactions to a few pained gasps as the other man carefully peeled off the soiled dressing before wrapping a new one as tightly as he could. “Easy, buddy,” the pilot murmured as he worked. “Too tight?”

“Nah, it’s good,” Face breathed, feeling the throb from his wounded arm as Murdock finished tying off the dressing, tucking the end of the bandage carefully underneath.

It should have been a relatively minor injury, just a scratch from a bullet which had left a trough through his bicep. Too high for a tourniquet, but the damn thing wouldn’t stop bleeding, and Face was starting to feel the effects of blood loss, light-headed and decidedly cold in spite of the hot sun beating down on them.

Accepting the bottle of water Murdock held out to him, Face took some slow sips before asking, “Just how screwed are we?” The small two-seater plane looked fine apart from the engine which was in pieces around them, and the radio wasn’t working for some unknown reason. “You really think you can fix this heap of junk?”

The pilot immediately turned to the plane, patting a wing as you would a dog. “Don’t listen to him, baby. You’re beautiful!”

“Murdock, come on…” Face sighed, and his friend seemed to deflate a little, turning those concerned brown eyes back on him.

“I know what needs doing, Face, but I don’t know if I can do it,” the pilot admitted, strangely serious. “Really would be easier if BA was here. I reckon we can fix the radio between us, though!”

Forcing a smile as Murdock started work on the radio, Face considered their situation, not for the first time. Their plane had gone down over the desert, too far from anything to make it on foot with the meagre supplies they had, even without considering Face’s injury. Hannibal would already be looking for them, BA close behind, but so would the bad guys they had escaped from.

Pushing aside concerns over who would find them first – nothing they could do but wait – Face pitched in to help with the radio, listening as Murdock kept up a steady stream of one-sided conversation, switching accents and characters even as he worked. 

He lost track of time as they worked together, concentrating on keeping his hands steady and trying to focus. But he fumbled the screwdriver again, unable to move his left hand properly to steady his actions, and he sat back on his heels, breathing hard.

“…Face? You with me?” Murdock’s voice eventually pierced his foggy mind, and he raised his head just as his friend moved in front of him, one hand on his good shoulder while the other slipped on his neck, cool fingers feeling gently for a pulse. “Take a few deep breaths for me.”

“’M okay, Murdock.” But Face followed the instructions, pulling in a couple of deep breaths, the hot desert air feeling as if it was searing his lungs even as he started to shake a little. He blinked heavily as his friend’s face swam a little in front of him.

“Yeah, buddy, you’re just great.” The pilot shook his head slightly. “Lie down for a while, Facey. Maybe that arm of yours will stop bleeding if you lie still for a bit.”

“We gotta fix the radio,” he protested weakly, even as Murdock gently pushed him down in the shade of their crashed plane.

“Now now, Faceman,” the pilot chided him like he was a little child. “Don’t make me pull rank on you. I ain’t so used to giving orders these days.” That was nonsense, Face knew. For all his craziness, Murdock was still a Captain in the Rangers.

“Yes, sir!” Face pulled an awkward little salute as his friend slipped his folded jacket under his head, trying to make him comfortable. “Don’t fuss, Murdock – sorry, Captain, sir!”

Murdock just giggled, moving out of Face’s line of sight briefly. The effort to lift his head and watch his friend seemed completely beyond him, so the lieutenant just lay still. Maybe his friend had the right idea – after a few slow breaths, the world seemed to come into sharper focus, the wooziness fading a little.

A minute later the pilot reappeared. “Just going to raise your legs a bit, buddy,” Murdock explained, as he lifted Face’s legs and settled them onto what felt like a crate from the plane. “Don’t want you slipping into shock, right?” Face just blinked up at him, letting the pilot bustle around him, tightening the bandage even more around his arm and draping a thin blanket over his torso when he continued to shake.

When Murdock paused in his ministrations to gently smooth his friend’s hair back from his forehead, Face mumbled, “Thanks, HM. Sorry about this.”

“Hey, no apologies. Not your fault, my fine man,” Murdock replied in a British accent for some reason. “Take it easy and concentrate on keeping your blood inside your body, wot-wot?”

Now he was settled in the shade of the plane, Face wondered how he’d been able to move around at all. His body felt heavy, any last remnants of adrenaline abandoning him completely, and he decided he would close his eyes for a little while.

Murdock seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, tucking the blanket a little closer. “Get some rest, Face. I’ll wake you in a bit.”

Eyes already closing, he managed to reply, “Okay, man.” Then he was out.

* * *

The radio was almost fixed, Murdock just knew it. Pausing in his work a minute, he glanced over to where Face lay by the plane, visibly shaking despite the heat of the desert.

In spite of his best efforts, his friend was still losing blood, the flow from his injured arm steady rather than gushing but reaching serious levels, the sand where he lay now stained red as the blood seeped through the bandage. On top of that, Face was clearly slipping into shock, his pulse irregular and breathing laboured, and when Murdock had last changed the bandage he had been worried sick to see the first signs of infection taking hold, the skin around the wound red and puffy.

Shaking off his worry, Murdock wiped the sweat from his brow and turned his focus back to the radio. A few more wires, a little twist there – BA wasn’t the only one with mechanical skills, oh no! The captain laughed out loud when the machine finally screeched into life, then immediately winced as the noise grew in volume.

Flicking a couple of switches, the radio settled into occasional bursts of static. As Murdock started to tune it, searching for one of the Army’s emergency channels, he was startled when a hoarse voice asked, “You got it working?”

“Sure did, buddy,” he announced, glancing over at Face as his friend turned his head in the direction of the static. “We’ll have you out of here in no time. Just you stay still over there, okay? I’ve got this covered.”

“Hmm, ‘kay,” came the drowsy response, and Murdock started again to tune the radio, keeping half an eye on the lieutenant as his eyes slipped shut once more.

Working as fast as he could, sending out a distress call whenever he thought he’d found a channel, the pilot nearly cheered when he finally heard a voice under all the static. Frantically trying to fine-tune it, he called, “Hello?”

And then, at last, the one voice in the world he wanted to hear more than any other.


	4. The One With Face's Shoulder (2013?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A prequel of sorts to 'A Family Holiday', detailing the mission behind Face's dislocated shoulder.

“Murdock!” Hannibal yelled, trying to put as much authority into his voice as he could. “Wake up, Captain!”

The cliff crumbled a little more as he grappled for a toehold, the soft earth disintegrating rapidly in the torrential rain. Above him, Hannibal heard BA also calling for Murdock, the big man’s grip around his wrist firm and unyielding as they hung precariously, the drop below them impossible to survive.

Another chunk of the cliff edge came down around them, and they dropped a couple of feet, Face unable to stifle his cry of pain at the jolt. Hannibal strained his head back to snatch a glimpse of the lieutenant, whose eyes were squeezed shut with pain and his whole face red as he fought to keep his grip on BA.

The chopper had gone down quickly, Murdock managing to gain enough lift at the last minute to land it on the edge of the cliff rather than smashing straight into it. It had been badly damaged, though, and the resultant explosions from the battered engine had left the pilot unconscious, as well as throwing BA and Hannibal far too close to the edge. 

When the soft ground had suddenly started to give way beneath them, the corporal had barely managed to catch Hannibal, while Face had rushed to secure a rope in order to pull them both to safety. Then, when a massive piece of the ground had dropped away suddenly, their lieutenant had been left with no choice but to grab BA’s wrist with his right hand, his left wrapped tightly around the very end of the rope as they all fell.

Hannibal was amazed that Face had managed to hold both himself and BA up for as long as he had now. He had no doubt that BA could haul him to safety, just as Face could, but Face stood no chance of pulling both of their combined weights up the crumbling cliff. Face was strong, of course, but BA’s weight alone would have been a challenge, let alone with Hannibal’s added bulk. And the rope had to be getting dangerously slippery by now.

Even above the pounding rain and the muted background roar of flames, the colonel could hear Face’s ragged gasps for breath. Could see his arms pulled painfully taut, strong shoulders straining. “Murdock! You have to wake up, you have to get a rope to us!” Hannibal virtually screamed, the urgency of the situation undeniable. 

If the captain didn’t wake, he would be faced with an impossible choice. Either all three of them would plummet to their deaths, or Hannibal would have no option but to let himself fall, in the hopes that BA and Face could somehow get to safety without him.

“Hannibal? Guys?” The slightly weak, obviously confused voice of their pilot drifted down over the cliff edge.

“Murdock, get the rope!” BA hollered from immediately above Hannibal.

“Captain, you need to get another rope to us quickly, tie it off to a tree,” the colonel ordered loudly, hoping Murdock wasn’t too badly injured to be able to help. Above BA, Face cried out again through gritted teeth. “You have to hurry, Murdock!”

“Boss…” Face gasped, “My shoulder’s gonna go… I can’t hold on…”

“Yes you can, kid,” Hannibal encouraged, feeling guilty and slightly sick as he added, “You’re doing brilliantly. Just a little longer now.”

“It’s coming, guys,” Murdock called, his voice thankfully sounding a little stronger than previously.

“Any time now, you crazy fool,” BA ground out, his grip still like iron around Hannibal’s wrist, although the colonel knew that his own not-inconsiderable weight had to be putting a strain on BA’s infamous strength. “Hang on, Face.”

Mercifully, at that point a rope was thrown down beside the men, and Murdock’s head appeared over the edge of the cliff above them, blood mingling with the rain running down his face from what appeared to be a deep gash along his hairline.

Seizing the new, longer rope with his free hand and wrapping his legs around it as best he could, Hannibal called, “Let go, BA, I’m safe.” Relatively speaking, at least. He shimmied up the rope as best he could under the circumstances, rain and mud hindering his progress, and he gratefully grasped Murdock’s outstretched hand to pull himself the last few feet as the pilot lay face down on the crumbling edge, holding tightly to the rope himself. 

At that point, an agonized cry rang out from the cliff beneath them, Face’s cry, and Hannibal’s heart lurched in his chest. Rolling as close to the edge as he dared, he peered down through the rain to where two of his team still hung in grave danger.

BA had transferred his weight to the new rope already but had only climbed a couple of feet. He clung on by the virtue of one hand and one foot wrapped around the rope, straddling Face and keeping his teammate pressed against the cliff. Face still had his left hand wrapped tightly in the original rope, but his right arm hung limply by his side. From the unnatural angle, Hannibal could tell the kid’s shoulder had been pulled from its socket.

“I gotcha, Faceman,” BA reassured his friend. “You did good. I’ve got you, now.” No response from the lieutenant, his eyes squeezed tightly shut, and his breaths coming in huge, pain-filled rasps. 

Urging Murdock back from the edge, Hannibal quickly worked up a plan to get his men up to safety. Face obviously couldn’t climb, and he knew BA wouldn’t move either until the injured man was out of danger. 

Later, he would find he couldn’t remember exactly what plan he came up with. The only thing that mattered was that soon all four of them were collapsed in the relative shelter of the trees, a safe distance from the wreckage of the burning chopper and the crumbling cliff.

Still trying to catch his breath, Hannibal rolled to his knees, quickly assessing the state of his team. BA seemed more or less fine, though he was filthy of course and probably more than a little pissed off at having woken up just as their chopper was crashing. Murdock was already sitting up too, his back against a tree, and he met his colonel’s gaze as he pressed a hand to his bleeding forehead. 

“I’m okay, boss,” the pilot assured him, though his voice was still a little shaky. “Just knocked myself silly for a few minutes.”

Nodding, satisfied that Murdock didn’t need immediate assistance, Hannibal crawled quickly to his lieutenant’s side just as BA was doing the same. Face lay flat on his back, still breathing heavily, his eyes now closed loosely. The worst of the mud had washed away and he was pale, too pale for a man who carefully cultivated an all-year-round tan.

“Easy, Face,” Hannibal soothed, reaching to brush the hair back from the younger man’s forehead. Pain filled blue eyes shuddered open and locked with his. “You did so well, kid. I’m so proud of you,” he told Face, leaning closer as his XO smiled briefly before squeezing his eyes tightly shut again and biting hard at his lower lip.

BA placed his hands on Face’s cheeks, holding his head still, as Hannibal gently ran his hands over the dislocated shoulder. It was already starting to swell, the muscles obviously locked in painful spasm, and Face cried out several times in spite of the colonel’s attempts to press lightly.

“Face? Open your eyes for me, kid,” Hannibal urged, and after a few seconds Face managed to blink up at him, his breathing growing a little more irregular. Locking his gaze with the suffering man, Hannibal told him honestly, “I need to put your shoulder back in, Face, and I need to do it quickly. I’m sorry, but it’s going to hurt like hell.”

“Just do it, boss,” the lieutenant gasped, blinking rapidly. “Feel like I’m gonna pass out now anyway… If that’s okay, Colonel?”

Resting one hand briefly on his XO’s chest, Hannibal forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile, trying to hide his worry. With the immediate adrenaline rush of the crash starting to wear off, it was growing harder to make himself think and act only as ‘the colonel’, rather than ‘Face’s lover’. 

“That’s fine, Face,” he told the lieutenant, resisting the sudden urge to lean down and kiss him. “It’s our turn to take care of you now, don’t worry.”

Face’s eyes slipped shut immediately, as if he simply couldn’t stay conscious after having been given permission. BA patted his teammate’s cheek gently. “Face? Still with us?”

There was no response, though Hannibal waited a moment or two just to be certain, glad that the younger man would be unconscious when they started manipulating his shoulder. Satisfied that Face was truly out for the count, he nodded to BA. “Let’s do this. The quicker the better.”

As they carefully lifted Face’s limp body into a sitting position, BA cradling him against his broad chest, Murdock asked in an unsteady voice, “What can I do to help, Colonel?”

Glancing back over his shoulder to where the pilot sat, anxiously staring at his best friend, Hannibal replied honestly, “Nothing, Murdock, but thanks. You’re more help right where you are for now. How are you feeling? How’s the head?”

“Head’s thumping, bossman, but I’m really okay, I think,” his captain mumbled, still pressing one hand to his head, the blood oozing slowly down his face. “How in the hell did Face hold both of you up for so long? You ain’t exactly lightweights. No offense.”

Getting a good grip on Face’s upper arm and bracing himself, as BA wrapped his arms firmly around the lieutenant’s chest to provide a counterbalance, Hannibal replied absently, “Adrenaline’s a wonderful drug, Murdock.” 

Between the two of them, Hannibal and BA tugged and pulled until finally they felt the joint rotate back into position. Even unconscious, Face moaned a little in pain, but mercifully he didn’t wake. Checking the pulse in the lieutenant’s right wrist, relieved to find it strong and steady, Hannibal gingerly laid the arm across Face’s stomach. It was the most he could do to support the injured limb until they could make a supported sling and strap him up, though he knew his lover would face a lot of down-time and physiotherapy once they returned to the States.

BA carefully adjusted his grip on his friend, keeping him against his chest but moving one hand to cup Face’s right elbow, steadying the arm. “Fire’s nearly out now, boss,” he said softly. “Don’t know if much kit survived, though.”

Following the corporal’s worried gaze, Hannibal noted that the fire was indeed dying down, the torrential rain gradually overpowering the force of the flames from their downed chopper. He certainly shared BA’s concern but hoped that at least the medical kit had survived; something must have been thrown from the wreckage since both Face and Murdock had found ropes easily enough, and of course the four of them had survived the crash in the first place.

Far more importantly, though, Hannibal hoped that the emergency beacon had survived, or one of the radios. It would be a long, painful trek back to civilisation if not, particularly for his injured lover.

Until the flames were out completely, though, he didn’t dare return to the wreckage to check. Shaking off the thoughts, Hannibal resisted the urge to lift Face out of BA’s strong arms and cradle him close, instead forcing himself to turn to his other wounded man. He had to be the colonel for the foreseeable future.

“Your turn, captain,” Hannibal told Murdock with a tiny smile, crouching down next to him. The pilot blinked at him before slowly taking his hand away from his bleeding brow, and Hannibal started his examination. Sometimes, he felt more like a medic than a colonel.


	5. The One With BA and Face (2015?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally intended to be a continuation of the story I began in 'Taking A Break', which was later finished off so beautifully by Jullian Gray. In addition, the basic idea behind what happened to Face is the same idea I recycled in 'Brotherhood' - sometimes, I'm not particularly creative!

“I still can’t believe you got Hannibal to agree to this.” Face stretched himself carefully, revelling in being in the passenger seat of the van for once rather than cramped in the back. Even if it did feel like he’d stolen Hannibal’s seat. “Two whole days away…”

“Well, more like three days. Two nights.” Face swung his head round in surprise, loving the self-satisfied smile on BA’s face.

He laughed softly, adjusting his sunglasses and settling back into the seat. “And people say I’m the miracle worker.”

“The boss thought it was a good idea, actually. And there’s some hot-air balloon show Murdock wanted to see.”

“So Hannibal gets to try and keep Murdock out of trouble in a whole field of hot-air balloons? Singlehandedly? While we’re in a hotel?” Well that was either brave or stupid… “That could be fun, I suppose.”

BA smile just grew wider, and Face allowed himself to just drift for a while, half-watching the road and half-watching his lover. It was rare for BA to show this much of his good mood; a wide smile was usually a fleeting thing, something Face had come to treasure even a tiny glimpse of.

BA kept his eyes on the road ahead, but he seemed to feel Face watching. He reached one hand over and laid it heavily on Face’s thigh, and Face quickly covered it with his own hand, interlocking their fingers and heaving a happy sigh. Right now, it was easy to forget they were wanted fugitives. This felt normal and right.

“What as it you said, the other mornin’?” BA’s smile had eased a fraction, but his grip on Face’s hand tightened. “Sleep, sex, and you?”

“Mmm, yeah.” Sleep was beckoning, actually. Bosco’s smooth driving, the soft background music from the radio, the warmth of the sun. “The perfect holiday.”

“Why don’t you get some rest now, baby? For all the things I’ve got planned.” Face could hear the smile still in the other man’s voice, but there was a trace of worry now in those dark eyes. Coupled with the rare pet name – he got the occasional ‘sweetheart’, but mostly they didn’t feel the need to make things overly sweet – he heaved a mental sigh.

“You know I’m perfectly fine, right?” A twitch of dark brows, but BA said nothing. “You and Hannibal got to me in time.”

“Hannibal got there in time.” Anger now, and damn, Face didn’t mean to do that. He knew his lover saw himself as the team’s protector, knew how much BA hated that their Colonel had been the one to save Face. Even though Face didn’t remember much of it himself.

“And now I’m perfectly fine,” he emphasized. “I’ve been perfectly fine since it happened.”

He squeezed his lover’s hand, bringing his other hand over to wrap tightly around them both, and after a moment Bosco glanced away from the road to meet his eyes for a second, some of his worry fading away again. “’Fine’.” BA shook his head. “Temp, I see how tired you still are. How exhausted. That ain’t just missions. You can’t hide that from me, and I don’t think you were fooling Hannibal either.”

That was a long speech from his usually quiet better half. It was one of the many things that Face loved about BA, the fact that they could say so much with so few words.

“Maybe I’m a little tired,” he admitted reluctantly, though how much of his tiredness was down to mission after mission followed by Hannibal’s early morning training sessions, and how much was caused by his recent near-drowning, he really didn’t know. “But now I’ve got three whole days of sleep, sex – ”

“ – And you.” With one final affectionate squeeze, BA let go of Face’s hand.


	6. The One Where Murdock Attacks Face (2014?)

The fall seemed endless. Just how many stairs were there in this house, Face wondered distantly, as he hit each and every single one, all the air knocked from his lungs as the weight of his body slammed downwards. He felt his back smash hard against the wall, his legs colliding with the bannister, arms tangling beneath him as he continued to fall. He tried to tuck and roll but there was simply no time, no chance to protect himself. No choice but to feel every single collision, bruises already blossoming before he even hit the ground. 

He’d never realised how hard the floor in the hallway was either, though he realised it now when gravity finally slammed him down into it. He slid for what seemed like miles until he eventually hit the wall head-first, nothing he could do to stop himself nor brace for the impact. 

For a split second, there was no pain. There wasn’t any air either, and Face threw everything he had into just trying to pull some oxygen back into his lungs, even as the world around him threatened to fade away to darkness. As he finally managed to gasp in a huge breath, the pain hit at the very same second, and every single part of his body screamed out at once as it registered the bruises and bumps he’d taken on that long fall.

He hadn’t just fallen, though. His brain was only just catching up to the reality of the moment, in the same moment as his vision solidified enough to focus on Murdock thundering down the stairs towards him. With his breathing barely back under control, Face couldn’t find his voice to shout for Hannibal or BA, nor could he move his battered body just yet. He tried desperately to catch his lover’s wild gaze, praying he could reach through whatever nightmare the other man was trapped in, but at the same time he tried to tense in anticipation of yet another attack.

Murdock’s lips were moving, and Face figured he had to be shouting, but his ears were ringing from the fall, and everything was silent. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion, too, as Face watched his lover throw himself down the stairs towards him, the face he loved so much twisted in anger and hatred, rather than concern.

He squeezed his eyes shut, not wanting to see that. It wasn’t Murdock, Face knew, it was whatever demon had seized his mind this time. He should have known something wasn’t right, the way the other man had jumped all over him once they’d returned from the mission. That wasn’t his Murdock. That should’ve been a warning sign. And now – 

“Face!” Hannibal’s sudden shout burst the bubble Face had been trapped in, sound and light and everything else suddenly slamming back into place as time sped up once again. “Stand down, Captain!”

Face forced his eyes back open to see Murdock still straining to get to him, held back now by BA’s strong arms locked around his chest while Hannibal had seized his legs. Between them, they held the pilot suspended in the air, his wiry body fighting them every inch of the way as he threw punches blindly, and now Face could hear every word he was shouting. 

“Bastard! Fucking… Get your fucking hands off me, devil – Kill the bastards, you damn idiots get the fuck off me – ” His eyes were still locked on Face, no recognition at all as he continued to scream and fight. “You son of Satan, get your damn minions off me, I’ll gut you like a fucking fish – ”

“Get him down,” BA shouted over the top of it all, and Face could only watch as he and Hannibal wrestled the pilot to the floor, pinning his arms and legs and trying to force him to be still. “Settle down, Murdock, stop fightin’ us. You’re safe, man.”

“Face, you with us, kid?” Hannibal called, throwing him a worried look over his shoulder as he rested all his weight onto Murdock’s legs.

Still gasping slightly for air, Face managed to catch his breath enough to reply, “Yeah, boss… Don’t know what set him off, he just… He just flipped, pushed me… I don’t…” 

“Stay still, lieutenant. Just stay there.” Hannibal turned back to BA, and Face recognised the look they exchanged. BA tightened his arms further around Murdock, pinning the pilot’s arms to his chest even as he turned so he could pin the smaller man to the floor without Hannibal’s help. Their colonel gradually untangled himself from the pile of limbs, and Face watched as Murdock seemed to realise he was defeated, falling suddenly very still and very quiet. Those staring eyes seemed to lose focus, starting to drift somewhere very dark, and Face felt his heart give a painful throb in his chest.

Hannibal raced back up the stairs, taking them three at a time with his long legs. Going for a sedative, Face knew – when Murdock got like this, there was sometimes no other choice. The pilot was a danger to himself and to others, clearly, and as much as Face wanted to protest, he couldn’t. He found tears forming in his eyes, from more than just the pain of his injuries.

But he couldn’t just lie there and watch, not when Murdock was suffering like this. Face hurt, his whole body hurt so damn much, but not helping his lover in some way would hurt him worse. Tensing every aching muscle he had, he managed to get one hand flat on the floor before pushing himself up as slowly as he could, using the wall to lean against heavily. He found his left arm wasn’t working properly, his shoulder on fire with every inch he gained, but Face kept going even as his head felt like it might fall off his neck. He had to get to Murdock.

“Face, stay down!” BA called to him, his strong legs wrapped around Murdock’s now. “You’re hurt, man. Don’t move, don’t come over here.” 

He kept moving, though, slowly working his way up to a seated position, managing to straighten his legs out as adrenaline flooded through his body, dampening the worst of the pain. Nothing seemed broken, at least, though Face couldn’t be sure. “Murdock?” he called, keeping his eyes on his lover as he started to shuffle slowly across the hall. The two men were only a metre or two away, but the distance seemed like miles in Face’s battered condition. “Murdock, can you hear me? Listen to me, baby, it’s all okay.”

No response from his lover, though the sound of thundering footsteps above them announced Hannibal’s return as the colonel suddenly appeared at the top of the stairs. “Face, stay back,” the colonel warned, but his voice was softer than before. Face didn’t even spare him a look, eyes watching Murdock the whole time. “Face, don’t – ”

“Help me or shut up,” he gasped, having to stop for a brief moment as his back suddenly gave a painful spasm. Probably not the best way to talk to his CO, he realised after a second, and immediately tried to cover – “Hannibal, please, I can help him, I can get through to him.”

“Damn it, kid,” Hannibal muttered, but he was suddenly right by Face’s side, wrapping careful arms around his waist and helping him slide forwards the final few feet until they were right beside the other two men. “Careful, now.”

“Can you hear me, sweetheart?” Face stretched out one shaking hand to stroke gently down his lover’s cheek, trailing his fingers along Murdock’s jaw. “It’s me, it’s Temp. And Bosco and Hannibal are here too – you’re safe, it’s all over. Can you hear me?”

Nothing. Not even a blink, those eyes dark and stormy now, fixed on some point far in the distance. Murdock wasn’t moving, wasn’t fighting, but his whole body was tense in BA’s restraining grip, his chest heaving hard and nostrils flaring with obvious anger. 

“Do it, Colonel,” BA whispered, but Face shook his head, ignoring the spike of pain that shot up his neck at the action.

“Wait,” he begged, leaning closer still. “Murdock, please… Look at me, relax for me. I’m here, you didn’t hurt me…”

For a split second, his lover’s eyes locked onto his once more, and Face felt hope blooming as Murdock frowned, blinking slowly. “Facey…?” he mumbled, trying to pull away from BA’s arms. “What – ?”

“Easy, man,” BA rumbled, not loosening his grip for even a second. “Be still.”

Face kept his hand moving, stroking his lover’s cheek over and over again. “I’m here, baby,” he whispered, peering deep into those stormy eyes. Murdock’s pupils were blown wide, black more than brown visible in their depths. Drugged, perhaps? But how? “Come back to me now.”

As fast as it had come, that moment of recognition was gone, and Murdock’s lips curled back into a snarl, his body suddenly taut in BA’s arms once more. “Bastard,” he hissed, and Face felt a strong arm push him back against the wall as Hannibal slipped in front of him, syringe at the ready. Within seconds he had the sedative injected, and Murdock fell limp. Those stormy eyes didn’t close all the way, though, and Face felt a painful shudder rip through him as BA and Hannibal climbed to their feet, lifting Murdock between them.

“Stay there, Face,” Hannibal told him as they started to carry the now-unconscious pilot back upstairs. Taking him to a bed, Face knew, somewhere they could make sure he would be safe. He hoped they didn’t tie him down. Murdock hated being restrained, in any way. “I’ll be right back, kid. Don’t move, okay?”

“Okay,” Face managed to mumble, but they were already gone. As much as he wished he could follow them, it was all he could do at that moment to simply stay upright and keep breathing. He let himself fall sideways until he was leaning against the wall once again, the pain of his injuries starting to become impossible to ignore as the adrenaline began to wear off far quicker than he’d like.

Straining his ears, ignoring the ringing sound that was starting to get louder again, he found he could hear the soft murmur of deep voices drifting down to him. Hannibal and BA, not Murdock. Not his lover, and Face suddenly found himself fighting back tears. He should be there, by Murdock’s side. Not just sitting on the floor, waiting.

What the hell had happened to set Murdock off like that? Could it possibly have been the storm outside, awakening some forgotten nightmare? Or had Face’s earlier instincts been correct, and the pilot had actually been drugged after all? Not that it mattered right at that moment, Face had to concede, gasping in pain as he tried to sit up a little straighter. His whole body hurt, but the pains were starting to become more specific now, particular injuries making themselves known. His entire right side was starting to scream at him where he’d hit the stairs first, and as he tried to move off the wall to shift the pressure, something felt as if it was stabbing through his side.

“Shit…” he breathed softly, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as the pain rippled through his lower body and up his back. “That hurts…”

“Easy, kid. Where does it hurt?” A warm hand took his, squeezing very gently, and Face blinked his eyes back open to see Hannibal kneeling in front of him, a deep frown etched into his forehead. He hadn’t even heard the colonel come back downstairs.

But despite everything, there were more important things than his injuries at that moment in time. “How is he?” Face asked, trying to focus on Hannibal. “Murdock, is he…?”

“He’s okay. He’ll be out for hours now, you know that. Bosco’s with him, just in case.” Good, that was good, and Face felt his eyes slipping closed as the ringing in his ears grew louder still. But Hannibal shook his hand ever so gently, and he tried to keep his traitorous eyes open a little longer. “Stay with me, Face. I know you’re worried about him; I am too, but I have to take care of you right now. That was one hell of a fall. Now, where are you hurt?”

He managed a breath of laughter. “I assume you want something more specific than just ‘everywhere’?” he gasped, his whole body really feeling like one giant bruise. But Hannibal didn’t even crack a smile, eyes raking over Face’s body before staring deep into his eyes, probably checking his pupils.

“Were you knocked out at all?” Keeping hold of Face’s hand the entire time, the colonel raised his other hand and touched Face’s forehead gently, brushing over something on his temple that made him flinch away, sending sparks of pain up and down his neck as he tensed bruised muscles. “Sorry, kid. Hold still for me.”

“Wasn’t knocked out, just stunned,” he told the other man honestly, even as he let his own gaze drift up until he was staring at the ceiling. Murdock was up there, sleeping now. No, not sleeping – unconscious. Hopefully at peace and not trapped tight inside his nightmares. “Is he really okay?”

Hannibal slipped his hand back into Face’s hair, steady and sure fingers feeling over his skull. “He will be. We’ll get him there, figure out whatever caused this.” Hannibal’s voice was barely more than a whisper, but as always Face found it the most reassuring thing in the world. “Let’s focus on you right now, Lieutenant. Where else does it hurt?”

That probing hand lifted away from his head and came to rest gently on his left shoulder, and Face couldn’t bite back his cry of pain as the agony he’d forgotten about flared up again. “That hurts, boss. Shit, that really hurts!”

Hannibal snapped his hand away as if it was burned, only to reach back gingerly and run cautious fingers over the joint. “Dislocated,” Face heard him murmur, but he was suddenly too busy just breathing to reply. After what seemed an age, Hannibal lifted his hand away yet again, pulling back to look into Face’s eyes. “Any pain in your neck or back?” he asked, and Face groaned again as his body remembered every point where it had hit on his way down the stairs.

“My neck is sore,” he admitted softly, trying to shift his body again as the pain in his right side started to grow towards being unbearable. Hannibal was there, though, moving both hands to hold him still. Face took a deep breath, focussing on where the worst of the pain was, before he continued. “And my lower back, my right hip and my right leg.”

Hannibal shook his head slowly, his frown growing deeper. “What about your chest – ribs? Stomach?”

“Not really.” Face held himself carefully still as Hannibal trailed those long fingers down his neck before moving around behind him, pressing gently all the way down his spine. Tiny flares of pain with each action, but it was bearable until the colonel touched somewhere just above his waistband that almost made Face throw up. “Oh god…” he gasped, his whole body straining forwards as the world started to grey out around the edges.

“Face?” Strong hands caught him as he fell forwards, Hannibal somehow back in front of him. “Easy, kid. Breathe through it. Just breathe.”

“Boss?” Blinking hard, he tried desperately to bring the world back into some sort of focus. Hannibal’s face was swimming in front of him, his voice sounding as if it was coming from deep underwater. “I think… I need to lie down…”

He wasn’t sure, in the end, if he’d managed to say it out loud or if he just thought it. But that threatening darkness slammed down over him with no more warning, and suddenly Face couldn’t care about anything anymore.


	7. The One With The Foiled Plans (2016?)

It really wasn’t fair. Face’d had plans – big plans, seriously huge plans – plans which had taken shape gradually over the course of the last few months, and they were plans that he knew his lover would, quite simply, adore.

Turning fifty was a big deal after all, and certainly not something that happened every day. But Hannibal wouldn’t want a big fuss, Face knew that much; outside of the briefing room, or off the field entirely, Face understood that his lover secretly hated being the centre of attention.

But details? Lots of perfectly well-thought-out little details, all coming together to make the perfectly planned and organised birthday celebration? Just the right-sized gathering of a few select friends, with the perfect food and drinks and gifts, followed by the perfect night in with just Hannibal and Face, and perhaps Face wearing the blue silk lingerie that always makes Hannibal’s eyes go wide and black?

All that would have formed perfect the perfect plan, but sadly none of that was going to happen, and it really wasn’t fair. Even in his own head, Face knew he sounded like a disappointed toddler stamping his feet in frustration, particularly pathetic when it wasn’t even his birthday, but they were his perfect plans and it was his perfect lover’s birthday, and it really wasn’t fair.

He didn’t have the energy to get too worked up about it, though, and Hannibal certainly wasn’t much better off either. A particularly vicious flu virus had taken them both down, coming out of nowhere and knocking nearly half of Benning on their asses.

It was a proper flu too, not the type of man-flu all the female soldiers frequently mocked the men for complaining about. This wasn’t the type of flu that made you feel a little sniffly and tired for a few days, no; this was the type of flu that had led to both Hannibal and Face spending a few days in medical with dangerously high fevers, though Hannibal was fractionally further down the road to recovery than Face was.

Murdock, rather annoyingly, appeared to be completely immune so far, while BA had been amongst the very first on base to fall ill, almost a month ago now, and so the pair of them had been playing reluctant and unofficial nursemaids to their stricken teammates. Murdock had even bought a proper nurse’s costume to wear, though Face was very grateful that, so far at least, the pilot had been wearing it over his usual clothes.

Not that Face really cared, as his fever continued to burn breathtakingly hot before chills took over and he was left shivering violently, and as he coughed so hard it felt almost as if his lungs were trying to make a break for freedom. The nausea seemed to come in waves, perfectly timed with the waves of dizziness, and his muscles – the muscles Face worked so hard to keep in top condition – all felt as if they’d turned to jello.

To make matters worse, he wasn’t even allowed to be in the same room as Hannibal. Misery loved company, but both Murdock and BA had decided they should rest and recuperate in separate beds, since their alternating fevers and chills hit at different times. Face had made one abortive attempt to sneak into his lover’s bedroom, only to find himself clinging tightly to the floor as the room span in circles around him.

From the loudly-raised voices he’d heard outside his room a little while later, and the distinctive sound of a six-foot-three body hitting the floor heavily, he strongly suspected Hannibal had made a similar attempt, with equally poor success.

They could always celebrate Hannibal’s birthday on another day, of course, in a week or two when they were all back at full strength. Hannibal didn’t want a big fuss anyway, and that wasn’t what Face had planned, but it was Hannibal’s birthday today and it really just felt plain wrong to Face not to be celebrating at all.

As the bedroom spun in slow, lazy circles around him, and as the temperature seemed to drop to an almost normal level, Face couldn’t help but wonder if there might be some small part of his plans that he could pull off after all.

The worst of his flu was over, surely, and he was just a little weak and shaky.


	8. The One On A Victorian Farm (2015?)

“I heard word in the village that you might be in need of a new foreman.”

It is a statement rather than a question, and Templeton Peck takes a long moment to look again at the man standing before his desk before answering, “I am. Though I had not realised word had spread so soon.”

Mr Pike had only left the evening before last, dismissed from his position due to the weight of his failings. His references had sung his praises, but the man himself had proved to be sadly lacking in the necessary knowledge of assisting to run a farm such as Peck’s.

The man standing in front of Peck smiles slightly, bowing his head, and his bright blue eyes dance with secrets Peck can only guess at. “I am a good worker in need of a position, sir. I can help you here, I am certain of it, and I am most certain that I will be a far better foreman than Brock Pike ever was.”

Ah, then it is something personal. Peck narrows his eyes slightly as he looks yet again at this giant of a man before him. Tall, even taller than Peck himself, and lean, with broad, strong shoulders and a weather-beaten face. Older, though not too old to still be a productive farm worker, and with the bluest eyes Peck has ever seen.

“You have references, I presume?” he asks, holding that blue gaze as well as he can.

“Sadly, sir, I do not.” Before Peck can take a breath to dismiss him – he will not be taken for a fool, no matter how poorly his farm may have done in the last seasons – the man continues, taking a half-step closer to the desk and raising one hand. “All I ask is a trial period. If you find someone better, complete with references, then I will step aside without complaint. But you will not find someone better.”

“You are very confident for a man with no references, who turns up unannounced bearing only a small canvas kitbag. And you are also very well spoken for a common labourer.” The man makes no reply, settling instead into what appears to be parade rest, and Peck realises abruptly that this man has been a serving soldier at some time in his life. He narrows his eyes and takes a deep breath before making his decision. “Very well. A trial period, then, for two weeks.”

The tall man bows his head in thanks, tension appearing to leak from his shoulders. “You will not regret it, sir,” he vows, his deep voice sending a chill through Peck’s stomach.

Peck huffs a laugh, standing from his desk chair and straightening his waistcoat before offering the stranger his hand. “We shall soon see. Your name, then?”

“Smith, sir.” A tanned, leathery hand takes Peck’s in a firm, confident grip. “John Smith.”

* * * 

Smith proves himself quickly, earning the respect of the farmhands as well as the household staff, and Peck soon finds himself relying more and more on the older man’s steady presence. He enjoys the man’s company too, although he is all too aware that a friendship between a landowner and foreman is hardly appropriate. 

Still, it grows lonely at times, particularly as winter starts to draw in, the days growing shorter and the nights long. They talk, Peck and Smith, about the practical things, as well as the insignificant things – the weather, the animals, the daily tasks of the farm.

But one afternoon, as they ride side by side back to the farmhouse, Smith starts, “Forgive me, sir, but might I ask a somewhat personal question?”

Peck shrugs, keeping his gaze straight ahead. “You may ask, Mr Smith, though I may choose not to answer.”

A long pause follows, so long that he feels the foreman might well have changed his mind. But then comes the question Peck always dreads. “What happened to Mrs Peck, sir? I hear talk, of course, though I always take very little notice of what the young stable-boys say.”

“I’m sure, in this case, that the talk you have heard is almost certainly correct,” Peck bites out, feeling the familiar stab in his chest at the thought of his wife. “She is no longer here, and that is the only fact of any real importance. I have managed as well as I can without her.”

“She has not passed on, though, sir?” Smith’s voice is soft, hesitant, and Peck risks a sideways glance to see those bright blue eyes watching him closely in return. He sighs, shaking his head, wondering how much he could or should say to this man who is still really a stranger to him, in spite of the instinctive trust they seem to share.

In the end, he settles for, “What do the stable-boys say?” 

Smith huffs a brief, almost disbelieving laugh. “They say she left you and moved back to London, sir. They say she enjoys the society balls and is the talk of the town. That cannot be true. Why would she wish to leave you?”

That pang of regret fills Peck’s heart, and he hangs his head briefly, thinking of Charissa and the night he came in from the fields to find her gone, only the briefest of notes telling him she could no longer live the life he had chosen for them. 

“She thought she was marrying one of the Duke’s inner circle,” he tells Smith eventually. “But my ambitions were far simpler than her own. Two weeks after our wedding, I inherited this farm from the man who had been my guardian and guide in my youth, and made the decision to take over in his name. My wife was never happy here, and nor was she ever truly happy with me.”

“Sir, I am so s – ”

“No, Smith. No apologies, please, none are needed or wanted.” Peck spurs his horse into a trot, the foreman responding immediately to keep pace. “I hope she is happier now, and enjoying the life she has chosen.”

* * *

“How much do you truly know of this Smith man?” James Murdock, landowner of a farm in the next valley over from Peck’s, tries his very hardest to sound casual as he swigs from his flagon of ale. “His references, his background?”

Peck smiles, clapping the other man on the shoulder. “I know enough, my friend. He has proven himself a hard and knowledgeable worker from the very first day I hired him. Truthfully, I can no longer imagine running Peck farm without him by my side.” 

“That’s a bold statement, to be sure, about a man you have barely known for a full season.”

“And how much did you know about your Mr Baracus, when you first hired him as stable-master? Not much that was good, if my memory serves me well.” For some reason, it disturbs Peck to have questions asked about Smith, particularly from his oldest friend. “How much notice did you take of the fact he was dismissed from his previous position for fighting?”

“He tamed my beautiful but wild Billy with just a few words.” Murdock is quick to defend Baracus, as Peck knew he would be, though even he shudders at the memory of the wild stallion. “I could not have let him leave after that demonstration, and he has since proven himself a dozen times over.”

“As has Smith to me. If I knew his entire history it would not change that.” 

There can be no comeback to his bold statement, though Peck is certain that his friend still has doubts, in spite of the glass Murdock raises in toast. If truth be told, he can understand the way Murdock feels, since Smith’s background is a blank slate, apart from a few clues the older man has dropped while they rode or walked together across Peck’s farm.

Army, almost certainly, though that has been obvious to Peck since the very first day they met. There is something in the way the tall man holds himself that speaks of being an officer, an air of authority that carries over to the way he deals with the farmhands and Peck’s other staff, both firm yet fair. Peck had also caught glimpses of fading ink on the man’s solid upper arm, from what he presumes is a service tattoo of some kind, and he wishes he was bold enough to ask.

Smith has travelled abroad extensively, too, from the casual mentions he has made of French flowers and Spanish beauties, of Italian wines and German maids. His journeys have presumably been in the service of Queen and country, and Smith must have seen many battles – in spite of his well-spoken manner, he must have earned his officer’s stripes many times over.

No mention has ever been made of Smith’s family, not even after the foreman had asked about the absence of Mrs Peck. The older man had never raised the subject again, not even when Peck had asked the foreman to join him for a meal one evening and Smith had clearly seen Charissa’s framed embroidery still hanging on the dining room walls for all to see. His blue eyes had narrowed slightly before the taller man had clapped Peck on the shoulder and steered them away, and Peck had allowed himself to lean into the other man’s strength. 

“Just be careful, my friend,” Murdock cautions Peck now, draining the last of his ale and standing, slightly unsteadily, to go fetch more. “I would hate to see you taken advantage of again, as with that lazy good for nothing Pike. You can be too trusting, though that is far from the worst character failing to have, believe me.”

Peck catches Murdock by the wrist before his friend can turn away. “I thank you for your concern, truly, but I will be fine. I trust John Smith, and I will not be hurt by him.”

Murdock looks at him, and Peck can see the concern is clearly still there. “I only hope he is worthy of your trust,” the other man tells him solemnly, before breaking into a wild smile. “Now, more ale is called for!”

* * *

It is cold, wet and thankless work on the farm throughout November, and December brings the first snowfall across Peck’s land. He finds himself spending increasingly large amounts of time with John Smith, though their workloads are lighter, and they become ever more relaxed in each other’s company, though Peck is always aware that he must keep some distance between them as the other man’s employer.

“You have never asked me,” Smith starts one evening, as they sit in front of a roaring fire in Peck’s sitting room, nursing matching glasses of wine. At Peck’s confused glance, the foreman continues, “You have never asked me about my past, sir. About my life before I came to this place, and to you.”

“I have not.” 

Smith pauses before continuing, staring deep into the flickering flames. “If you asked… There are things I would rather not tell you, but if you were to ask, then I – ”

“Your past is your own, John Smith.” Peck can hardly tear his eyes from the other man. The fire makes Smith’s worn face appear to glow from within – he is a handsome man, as well as a deeply intelligent man, and it makes little sense to Peck that Smith isn’t married or at least settled with a farm of his own. But still, it is not his place to ask. “All that matters is the life you lead now, and your work here on my land. I have never needed to ask you more.”

“That is truly all that matters to you?” There is a frown in Smith’s voice, though his face remains blank. “Some might say you trust too easily, sir. What did I ever do to make you trust me the way you so clearly do?”

Peck has often asked himself the very same question, just as James Murdock had also asked him, and he has no answer. After being let down by Pike, he should have been wary of Smith, but instead he has indeed trusted the older man, and has revealed parts of his own history that he would rather not dwell on. There is simply something about Smith that something in Peck trusts, without question.

He says none of that to Smith, though. “Are you telling me that I should not trust you?” he asks instead, watching the foreman’s face for any signs of concern. Smith merely smiles.

“No, sir. I am telling you that I appreciate your trust, and I will do my best not to betray that.”

But somehow, that is not as reassuring as Peck thinks Smith intended it to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally written as an attempted entry for the 'historic fic' challenge at the Yahoo H/F group. I also remember being inspired by the 2015 BBC adaptation of 'Far From The Madding Crowd', hence my guess at the date.


	9. The One Where They Both Die (2016?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AKA The One Where LB Tries (And Fails) To Write A Proper Death-Fic.

Hannibal would be lying if he said he’d never thought about it; he has, far more than can ever be considered healthy. In his darkest moments and his most tortured dreams, he’s listed the numerous ways in which Face could be killed, and he hates himself every time he thinks of another possibility.

Any one of his boys dying would be terrible. Losing BA or Murdock would be like losing a son or a brother, heartbreaking and devastating, but to lose Face, Hannibal’s lover and soulmate… He knows he shouldn’t think about it even for a second, knows he should live in the moment and cherish every day they have together, but... 

He can’t help it. He thinks ahead, and plans for the worst. That’s his job, after all. 

It will be quick, most likely, living the lives they do. A single bullet, to the chest or to the head. A kill shot, dropping Face to the ground instantly with a spray of blood and tissue. No time for goodbyes or famous last words. Or perhaps a gunshot to the abdomen, slightly slower but still a relatively quick death, leaving his boy bleeding out slowly and painfully, lying in Hannibal’s arms and desperately trying to be brave as he gasps his last breaths.

It could be a knife, a sharp knife, slicing through skin and muscle as if they were nothing more than butter. Hannibal has had vivid nightmares where he kneels over his lover, bright red blood soaking his hands and spreading across the floor as he tries desperately to hold torn flesh together, watching the light rapidly fading in Face’s beautiful blue eyes.

The worst, though, are the nightmares in which Hannibal is too late. Too late to hold Face in his arms, too late to whisper final words of love and comfort in his ear. Too late to do anything but wreak a hideous, bloody revenge on the people who tortured the man he loves with electricity, or whips, or fists and feet alone, killing him before Hannibal could reach his side.

He couldn’t bear it if Face was killed, but Hannibal feels it would somehow be far worse to be too late. Worse, somehow, if Face died alone.

It might not be quick, though. They are on the run, yes, and living from day to day as self-styled ‘soldiers of fortune’, the threat of guns and knives and torture all everyday risks they have each accepted. But Hannibal could lose Face in so many different ways, some of them slow. Painfully slow.

Face is generally in peak physical condition, his muscles honed to perfection, but he could still fall ill. Hannibal tries not to imagine the worst whenever his lover catches a cold, or a chesty cough, or a stomach bug. Face hates being coddled when he isn’t well, so Hannibal tries not to hover. Tries not to imagine the younger man fighting for breath with blue-tinged lips as he succumbs to pneumonia, or the discovery of a tumour in his stomach, too far advanced for any hope of a cure.

If his lover does fall seriously ill, Hannibal will be there until the end, of course. He will nurse Face if he needs to, hold his boy’s hand and mop the sweat from his brow, and he will be a pillar of strength until the terrible day Face loses his fight. Only then will he let himself cry.

And perhaps, after everything, Hannibal will be the one to go first. He faces the same risks that could steal Face away from him, after all. It could be him who stops a bullet, or is sliced by a knife. It could be him who falls ill – he is the older of the two of them, as much as he hates to acknowledge that fact.

Hannibal isn’t scared of dying. Not even a little bit scared; doing the jobs he has done in his life, and seeing everything he has seen, how could he be scared? He doesn’t have any fear of what he might face in the afterlife. He doesn’t believe in any kind of afterlife at all, though he suspects Face still does.

No, the only thing that scares Hannibal about dying is what his death might do to the man he loves. He worries Face might not be strong enough to carry on without him, and might not have the will to even try.

It’s a valid fear. Hannibal knows that, if Face dies, he wouldn’t have the strength or the will to carry on for long. He’d see BA and Murdock through the worst of their grief, then follow his lover by his own hand.

On the day the team is finally pardoned, the day none of them thought would ever come, Hannibal dares to believe his dark thoughts and tortured dreams might finally end. No more bullets, or knives. They can find regular jobs now, if they want, desk jobs where the greatest risk they might face is from a papercut. If either of them fall ill, they can go to a normal hospital rather than a backroad clinic, and they can live the rest of their lives together free of fear.

Hannibal is driving away from the official ceremony, Face smiling and laughing in the passenger seat by his side, when he sees it about to happen, almost in slow motion. A lorry sliding out of control, moving far too fast for Hannibal to stand any chance of getting them out of its path in time. It will hit them head on, he realises – in the very last seconds before it strikes them he takes Face’s hand in his own, and spins the steering wheel in a desperate yet doomed attempt to avoid the unavoidable.

In slow motion, Hannibal has time for one last thought; together, then, after all. It’s comforting, somehow, after all his fears and nightmares. And then everything is over.


	10. The One With The Psychic (2017?)

Face checked his watch yet again, huffing impatiently. Hannibal was nearly half an hour late now, and they’d miss the movie unless he turned up in the next five minutes or so.

He sighed, burying his hands deeply in his pockets and shuffling back a fraction to lean against a tree, trying to keep out of the way of the crowds thronging through the busy shopping mall. It had been a good idea in theory, though perhaps they should’ve known something would come up at the last moment.

An actual afternoon off. A film, a beer, some popcorn, maybe even a bit of making out in the back row of the cinema – well, that last was just Face’s wishful thinking, of course. No, this wasn’t a date, as much as he might want it to be. It was just two good friends hanging out, away from work. Something normal guys did. 

‘Normal guys’. Who were they trying to kid?

Another glance at his watch told Face it was now officially too late. The film would be starting, and Hannibal had a weird thing about always sitting through all the adverts and trailers. Perhaps they could catch the evening show instead. 

Suddenly, without warning and before Face could react, someone slammed into Face hard, catching him on the shoulder and spinning him around.

“Oh, sorry!” It was a woman, nearly as tall as Face, and she grabbed a him at the same moment he grabbed at her, both of them stumbling into each other as they caught their balance. “I’m so sorry!”

“You okay there, ma’am?” Face asked instinctively, hands on her upper arms. She was a little older than him, perhaps Hannibal’s age, with piercing green eyes shining out at him through a fashionable pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

“I’m fine, just embarrassed.” The lady ran one hand through her mid-length black bob, her other hand still on Face’s shoulder where she’d grabbed him in return. “Sorry about that, I’m such a klutz!”

“Hey, no harm done.” Face flashed her one of his patented mega-watt smiles, and dropped his hands away, satisfied that she was steady on her feet and unhurt, his attention already drifting back to the still-missing Hannibal. But as he started to turn away her hand brushed against the bare skin of his arm beneath the cuff of his short-sleeved shirt.

Her hand tightened immediately around his bicep, and she gasped, “Oh, wait.” She seized Face’s hand in her own, pulling him one stunned step closer. “She loved you very much, you know.”

Face froze in place, caught off-guard by both her touch and her words. “Ma’am, I – ”

“She loved you, but she couldn’t keep you safe.” Those green eyes seemed to drift slightly out of focus, her voice hushed and her words slightly slurred. “She wanted you to have a better life, and that’s why she left you behind.”

“What?” Face found he was practically whispering in return, leaning closer to her without meaning to. He shook himself a fraction. “Ma’am, I think you’ve got the wrong person.”

But the woman continued as if he’d never spoken, her grip on Face surprisingly strong. “She named you Arthur. Your Father was a dangerous man, and she wanted you to be safe. He never knew about you. Oh, but she loved you so much. Don’t ever doubt that, Arthur, promise me.” 

Face swallowed hard, astonished to feel tears prickling at the back of his eyes. “I think that’s enough now,” he whispered, trying half-heartedly to pull himself free from her near-bruising grip. “Stop it, please.”

He was a conman, and a scam artist, and it took one to know one. He was being played, for some unknown reason, but that knowledge didn’t stop her words cutting him to the bone. 

The woman suddenly blinked, green eyes snapping back into focus as she took a step backwards and pulled her hands away from Face’s skin as if she’d been burned. “Oh, I’m… Sorry, I didn’t mean to…” She shook her head, then glanced quickly over Face’s left shoulder. “I have to go.”

“Wait – what did you mean by all that?” Face made to take her by the wrist but she stepped back again, rummaging in her handbag and producing a business card which she practically flung at him.

“I really have to go,” she repeated, turning and hurrying into the crowds, quickly disappearing from view and calling back over her shoulder as she went. “I’m sorry.”

Face paused then bent to scoop up the business card which had fallen to the floor, unsure whether to follow her or let her vanish, when he suddenly heard his name being called.

“Face? Hey Face, kid, there you are.” Warm hands landed on his shoulders, squeezing gently and turning him around. “I’m sorry, kid, I couldn’t get out of a meeting. Did we miss the movie?”

And Face found himself looking up into Hannibal’s gorgeous blue eyes, though his heart was still racing and his fingers closed convulsively around the business card, creasing it in his grasp.

He found he had to swallow a few times before he could speak, and Hannibal started to look a little worried before Face could finally say, “Hey, Hannibal. Don’t worry about the movie, we can catch the next showing, right?”

“You okay?” Hannibal asked, his voice low and for Face’s ears only, and Face gave in to the urge to glance back over his shoulder trying to see where the woman had gone. The hairs on the back of his neck were prickling as if he was being watched. “Face?”

“Yeah,” he answered after a long moment, trying to force his voice to sound normal again. From the look on Hannibal’s face, he wasn’t quite succeeding. “I’m fine, boss.”

“Sure?” Hannibal followed Face’s line of sight, clearly trying to spot whatever might have upset him. 

“Sure.” Maybe if Face said it often enough, it might suddenly be true. Why in the world was he feeling so shaken? “You wanna grab a beer, or a burger, maybe? We’ve got a couple of hours to kill.”

As Hannibal slid one big, strong arm around Face’s shoulders and started leading him off through the crowds, Face slid the business card very carefully into the back pocket of his jeans, hating himself but knowing he would be calling the woman later that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> From a prompt on the H/F Yahoo group in 2017, when Indigo asked for a story featuring a vulnerable Face getting a message from someone who claims to have a message for him from his parents/mum/dad, and Face falling into their grip in spite of Hannibal's doubts. It was a fantastic prompt but I never saw a way to continue this starter.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm marking this as 'complete' for now as I've typed up everything I found so far that's vaguely worth keeping, at least in my opinion. If I find any other abandoned bits and pieces then I'll add them here too, but if anyone feels inspired to continue one of these snippets in the meantime then please do, just please remember to link back to this collection.


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